Air XXXV. Irish Trot
Polly.
I am bubbled.
Lucy.
I’m bubbled.
Polly.
O how I am troubled!
Lucy.
Bambouzled, and bit!
Polly.
My Distresses are doubled.
Lucy.
When you come to the Tree, should the Hangman refuse,
These Fingers, with Pleasure, could fasten the Noose.
Polly.
I’m bubbled, &c.
Macheath. Be pacified, my dear Lucy—This is all a Fetch of Polly’s, to make me desperate with you in case I get off. If I am hang’d, she would fain have the Credit of being thought my Widow—Really, Polly, this is no time for a Dispute of this sort; for whenever you are talking of Marriage, I am thinking of Hanging.
Polly. And hast thou the Heart to persist in disowning me?
Macheath. And hast thou the Heart to persist in persuading me that I am married? Why, Polly, dost thou seek to aggravate my Misfortunes?
Lucy. Really, Miss Peachum, you but expose yourself. Besides, ’tis barbarous in you to worry a Gentleman in his Circumstances.